The pale Barcelona morning filtered through the crooked lampshade, casting a striped shadow across the tangled sheets. Hannah's eyes opened first, the way they always did before training—a body wired for dawn alarms even when no alarm had been set. But there was no pitch waiting. No drills. No coach's whistle.
There was warmth. Weight. The slow, steady rhythm of someone breathing against her side.
Emily's head was tucked into the curve of Hannah's shoulder, her ginger curls a riot against the pillow, her mouth slightly open. One hand lay splayed across Hannah's ribs, fingers curled loose and trusting. The faded blue throw from the couch—the one Hannah had noticed last night—had somehow migrated to the bed, half kicked to the floor, tangled with a sheet that had come untucked sometime during the night.
Hannah didn't move. She barely breathed.
Waking up next to someone, in someone else's space—she'd done it before, sure. But never like this. Never with the specific terror of wanting it to mean something. The air smelled like Emily's shampoo and sex and the musty hint of a radiator that clicked on somewhere in the building. The window showed a strip of sky the color of old milk, and somewhere in the apartment, a pipe hummed.
The freckles across Emily's shoulder caught Hannah's eye. Small constellations she hadn't memorized yet. Dust motes floated in the stillness, and Hannah watched them, watched Emily's breath, watched the minute hand on a clock she couldn't see crawl toward the time she'd have to leave.
Training started at ten. The walk back to her apartment to change would take twenty-five minutes. She had maybe an hour before she needed to move. Maybe less, if she wanted breakfast.
The word breakfast lodged somewhere in her chest, tangled with the word stay and the word again and the word scared.
Emily stirred. A soft sound, half sigh, half waking. Her fingers curled against Hannah's ribs, a small reflexive grasp, and then her eyes opened. Sea-glass green, unfocused at first, then finding Hannah's face with a slow, dawning warmth that made Hannah's heart clench.
"You stayed."
Emily's voice was rough with sleep, barely a murmur, and the words hit Hannah harder than any goal she'd ever scored. She swallowed against the thickness in her throat.
"I said I would."
Emily smiled, a crooked, barely-there thing, and pushed herself up just enough to rest her chin on Hannah's chest. Her hair was a disaster, half matted, sticking up at the back. She looked rumpled and soft and entirely unguarded, and Hannah felt something crack open in her ribs that she didn't have a name for.
"What time is it?" Emily asked, squinting toward the window as if it might tell her.
"Early. Eight maybe."
"You have training." Not a question. Emily's hand slid from Hannah's ribs to her stomach, tracing the edge of a rib.
"Yeah." Hannah's voice came out lower than she meant. "In a couple of hours."
"A couple of hours is not early." Emily's thumb found a small scar on Hannah's abdomen—a surgical mark from a hernia repair at seventeen—and traced it once, lightly, as if asking permission. "That's late, actually. You're running late for a girl."
"I'm not running late."
"You're lying in bed watching me sleep. That's running late for the captain of FC Barcelona." Emily's grin widened, and her eyes crinkled at the corners. "I read the news, you know. After you told me. Your training is sacred. You're known for being the first one on the pitch."
Hannah groaned, a low embarrassed sound, and let her head fall back against the pillow. "You looked up articles about me."
"I read one article. The interview you gave after the Champions League final. You said your pre-match routine involves three alarms and a protein shake and arriving forty-five minutes early so you can feel the grass." Emily's smile turned soft, almost shy. "It was cute. You were cute. Very earnest."
"I sound like a nightmare."
"You sound like someone who cares about her job." Emily pressed a kiss to the center of Hannah's chest, quick and warm, and then rolled off her, stretching out on her back with a groan that suggested muscles she wasn't used to using. "But you don't have to stay. I know you have a life. I have... a spelling test to grade and a broken buzzer to complain about."
The offer was generous. A door left open, not a demand. But Hannah felt the weight of it anyway—how easy it would be to take it, to let Emily think she was fine with the casual morning, to slip out with a kiss and a promise to text and let the day pull them apart.
She didn't want to take it.
"Can I use your shower?" Hannah asked, her voice surprising her. "Before I go?"
Emily turned her head on the pillow, one eyebrow raised. "You want to shower here?"
"If that's— I mean, I can go back to my place, it's just—" Hannah's cheeks flushed, and she felt the familiar urge to look away, to deflect. "I'd rather stay. Until I actually have to leave."
Emily's smile returned, softer now, and she reached over to brush a strand of dark hair from Hannah's forehead. "Towels are in the cabinet outside the bathroom. The hot water takes a minute. And there's coffee in the press, if you want some before you go."
Hannah nodded, not trusting her voice.
She sat up slowly, the sheets sliding down her torso, and the morning air hit her skin. Her training jacket was somewhere on the floor—she remembered Emily pulling it off her last night with a laugh, remembered the coffee stain on the sleeve. She was wearing only her boxers, and the ink on her arms caught the pale light, dark patterns against her skin.
Emily's hand found her back, palm flat between her shoulder blades. "Your tattoo."
Hannah stilled. "The tree?"
"I didn't get to see it properly last night." Emily's voice was quiet, almost reverent. "Can I?"
It was a small question. A tiny one. But it asked for something—time, closeness, the particular intimacy of being traced in daylight. Hannah's throat tightened, and she nodded again, not turning around.
Emily sat up behind her, the mattress shifting with her weight. Her fingers were gentle, tracing the trunk of the tree that ran from Hannah's lower back to her shoulders, following the branches, the leaves that spread across her shoulder blades like a canopy. The touch was light, barely there, but Hannah felt it in her spine, in the base of her skull, in the place behind her ribs where she kept things she didn't have words for.
"It's beautiful," Emily whispered. "The detail. The way it moves with your muscles. Did it hurt?"
"Yeah." Hannah's voice came out rough. "But worth it."
"Why a tree?"
The question landed gently, but Hannah felt its weight. She stared at the crooked lampshade, at the wardrobe in the corner with a scarf hanging off the handle, at the messy stack of books against the wall.
"Because trees grow where they're planted," she said finally. "Even if the soil's bad. Even if the first place didn't work out. They find a way to root." She paused, her hand finding the edge of the sheet, twisting it between her fingers. "I moved nine times before I turned thirteen. Nine foster homes. Different towns, different schools, different beds. I never got to grow anywhere. So I put a tree on my back. To remind myself I could."
Emily's hand stilled on her shoulder. The silence stretched, long and careful, and Hannah felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with being shirtless.
"That's the most honest thing anyone's ever told me," Emily said. "And I teach seven-year-olds, so I hear a lot of honest things."
Hannah laughed, a startled sound that broke the tension, and turned to face her. Emily's eyes were bright, slightly wet at the edges, but she was smiling.
"You're a good person, Hannah Voss," Emily said. "And I'm really glad I spilled coffee on you."
"You didn't spill it. I walked into you."
"I was holding the coffee. I take full responsibility."
Hannah leaned in, her forehead resting against Emily's. "I'm glad you were holding it."
"Me too."
They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing the same air, the morning quiet around them. Then Hannah pulled back, her hands finding Emily's, and stood up slowly, stretching with a groan that echoed the Emily's from earlier.
"I'm going to take that shower." She ran a hand through her dark hair, mussed from sleep. "If the buzzer's still broken, how do I get back in?"
Emily's grin turned rueful. "You text me, and I come down and let you in. It's a whole thing. I've been meaning to fix it, but—"
"You're a busy teacher who spells 'turtle' with authority."
"Exactly." Emily pulled the sheet up around herself, her freckled shoulders bare, her curls a wild halo. "Text me when you're on your way back. I'll be here."
The words hit Hannah again— I'll be here —and she carried them into the bathroom, into the steam of a shower that took a full minute to warm up, into the unfamiliar scent of someone else's soap, into the domestic act of using a towel that smelled like lavender and a washcloth that had been carefully folded.
She scrubbed at her skin, letting the water run over her shoulders, over the tree on her back, over the phoenix on her left shoulder—reborn from foster homes and loneliness and the version of herself that hadn't known a place to root. The ink was dark against her wet skin, permanent, a promise she'd made to herself years ago.
The shower was small, the water pressure inconsistent, the tile a shade of beige that no one had chosen on purpose. It was the most perfect shower Hannah had ever taken.
When she stepped out, she found a clean towel, slightly scratchy but warm from the steam, and a glass jar on the sink that held a single toothbrush. No spares. Emily lived alone, had been alone long enough to have a system, to have one toothbrush, to not have extras for unexpected guests who stayed the night and wanted to stay longer.
Hannah dried off and padded back into the bedroom, her skin damp, her hair dripping onto her shoulders. Emily was sitting up now, a cup of coffee in her hands, the monstera visible through the doorway behind her. She'd pulled on an oversized shirt—something gray and soft, college logo faded beyond recognition—and she looked like she belonged in a painting.
"There's a hair dryer under the sink," she said, offering the coffee. "And a comb. But it's old and probably has cat hair in it, even though I don't have a cat."
Hannah took the coffee, the warmth seeping into her palms, and sat on the edge of the bed. "You don't have a cat, but you have a comb with cat hair?"
"I live in Barcelona. Mysteries happen."
Hannah laughed, a real laugh, open and surprised, and she felt something loosen in her chest. She sipped the coffee—strong, black, good—and watched Emily watch her.
"I have to go soon," she said, the words heavy. "Training. But I want to see you again."
"Tonight?"
"Tonight works." Hannah's pulse quickened. "I can pick you up after training. Maybe seven? We could get dinner somewhere that doesn't have a broken buzzer and a comb with cat hair."
"I'm charmed by my own broken buzzer, thank you very much." Emily's smile faded slightly, a flicker of something more serious crossing her face. "Hannah. I need to ask you something."
Hannah's stomach tightened. "Okay."
Emily set her coffee down on the bedside table, her hands finding her lap, her fingers twisting together. "You're famous. Like, really famous. I looked up your Instagram. You have three million followers. Your face is on billboards. You just won a Champions League. And I'm... a teacher. Who grades spelling tests. Who doesn't watch football."
"I know who you are." Hannah's voice was quiet, steady. "That's why I'm sitting here."
"But your world is going to be hard." Emily's sea-glass eyes held hers, steady and unblinking. "Paparazzi. Schedules. Travel. People who want to know who you're dating. I've never had to deal with any of that. I've never even thought about it. And I don't know if I'm— I don't know if I'm built for it."
Hannah set her coffee down beside Emily's. She reached for Emily's hands, covering them with her own. Her fingers were callused from gripping the bar while doing pull-ups, from hitting a ball day after day, from years of becoming the best in the world. Emily's hands were soft, small, the hands of someone who graded papers and opened books and touched the world gently.
"I don't know how to do this either," Hannah said. "I've never had someone I actually wanted to protect from it. But I want to try. If you want to try."
"I want to try." Emily's voice cracked slightly, and she pulled one hand free to press her palm against Hannah's cheek. "But you have to promise me something."
"Anything."
"Don't disappear." Emily's thumb traced Hannah's cheekbone, featherlight. "When it gets hard. When the season gets crazy. When people ask questions you don't want to answer. Don't pull away from me because you think you're protecting me. I'd rather be in the mess with you than safe and alone."
Hannah's throat closed. She leaned into Emily's touch, her eyes fluttering closed for just a second, and when she opened them, they were wet.
"I promise."
Emily kissed her then, soft and slow, the coffee taste of it lingering between them. It wasn't urgent, wasn't hungry—it was a promise. A seal on words they'd both said.
Hannah's phone buzzed from somewhere on the floor. She ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Emily pulled back, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. "That's your team."
"Probably Aitana. She's got a sixth sense for when I'm distracted."
"You should check. They might need their captain."
Hannah sighed and leaned over the edge of the bed, retrieving her jeans from the pile. The phone was wedged in the pocket, screen glowing with three notifications. She unlocked it and looked at the group chat.
Champions League Defense Squad Aitana: So. How was the date? Aitana: @Hannah Aitana: Don't ignore me I know you didn't sleep at home I checked your apartment. Alexia: You checked her apartment? Aitana: She didn't come home. I was worried. Alexia: You have a key? Aitana: I have a spare. She gave it to me. For emergencies. Alexia: Your definition of emergency is concerning. Aitana: Anyway. Training at ten. Be there. And bring answers.
Hannah closed her eyes, a groan building in her throat. "They know I didn't go home."
Emily peered over her shoulder, her chin resting on Hannah's bare skin, and let out a low laugh. "Of course they do. You're the captain. They're your family."
"A family that's going to ask very pointed questions."
"What are you going to tell them?"
Hannah turned her head, catching Emily's gaze. "The truth. That I met someone. That I think she might be important."
"She might be." Emily's voice was soft, her breath warm against Hannah's shoulder. "I have a good feeling about this one."
Hannah set the phone aside, face-down, and pulled Emily into her arms. They sat there, tangled together, the coffee cooling beside them, the morning light growing stronger through the crooked lampshade. The world was waiting—training, teammates, paparazzi, all the noise of a famous life that Hannah had built for herself. But for just a few more minutes, she let herself stay.
"Tonight," she said into Emily's hair. "Seven o'clock. I'll text you when I'm on my way."
"I'll be here." Emily pulled back, her hands finding Hannah's face, her eyes bright. "Text me after training too. Let me know how it went."
Hannah pressed a kiss to her forehead, then stood, pulling on her jeans, her shirt, her training jacket with the coffee stain still visible on the sleeve. She ran a hand through her damp hair, knowing it would dry in a mess, and found her trainers by the door.
Emily stood too, wrapping the sheet around herself, and followed her to the door. They lingered there, the threshold between them, the broken buzzer and the morning after and the weight of everything unsaid.
"Hannah."
Hannah turned.
Emily was leaning against the doorframe, the sheet slipping on one shoulder, her messy curls and her freckled skin and her crooked smile. "I'm glad it was you. In the café. I'm glad it was you."
Something cracked open in Hannah's chest for the second time that morning. She stepped forward, kissed Emily one more time—quick, fierce, tasting coffee and promise—and then she was out the door, down the stairs, into the Barcelona morning that smelled like bread and exhaust and possibility.
Her phone buzzed again as she hit the street. She pulled it out, expecting Aitana again, but it was a message from a number she hadn't saved yet.
Unknown: You left your jacket. Well. You left my apartment with your jacket. I have it. Come back.
Hannah stopped in the middle of the pavement, a grin spreading across her face. She typed back quickly, her thumbs moving with the same precision she used on the pitch.
Hannah: I'm coming back tonight anyway. Keep it warm.
Emily: It's a training jacket. It smells like you.
Hannah: That's the point.
Emily: You are insufferable.
Hannah: You like it.
Emily:...I like it.
Hannah pocketed her phone, the screen warm against her thigh, and walked toward the training ground with a smile she couldn't shake. The sun was climbing higher, the city waking around her, and she had a feeling that today—training, teammates, questions, all of it—would be the best day she'd had in a long time.
Because she had something to look forward to. Someone to come back to.
And a jacket that smelled like her, waiting in Emily's apartment, like a promise she intended to keep.